


Brick by Brick

by WritingOutLoud



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Divergence - The Hounds of Baskerville, Canon Divergence - The Reichenbach Fall, Drug Use, M/M, Sexual References, Sherlock's Past, Whump, soft mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:33:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26441263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingOutLoud/pseuds/WritingOutLoud
Summary: The walls Sherlock has built around himself are so high, he's not sure anyone will ever get close to him again. But John Watson arrives and they start to fall, brick by brick...
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 83
Collections: 10 Years of Sherlock, HolmesCon Writers Collection





	1. Peace

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sandrina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrina/gifts), [SherlockWatson_Holmes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockWatson_Holmes/gifts).



> Thank you so much to Sandrina and SherlockWatson_Holmes for organising such an amazing HolmesCon 2020!!!
> 
> \- The present day sections of this story coincide with the events of the Reichenbach Fall. 
> 
> \- Thank you so much to my wonderful beta, [SherlocksSister ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlocksSister)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brick by Brick is very loosely based on the Pink Floyd album, 'The Wall'. It is one of my absolute favourites, and I listened to it on repeat when writing this fic. I hope you enjoy, as always I love reading all your comments.

**_Present day: 21st November 2011_ **

Sherlock is released from police custody at 12.43 pm. He takes particular note of the time, counting fifteen hours and twenty minutes since John had first collapsed. He hasn’t slept- how could he, when John was in danger. 

Lestrade meets him in the foyer, looking exactly as Sherlock feels. When it becomes clear that Sherlock isn’t going to stop for him, he starts moving with him, half jogging to keep up with Sherlock’s long legs. 

“I’m so sorry, Sherlock I tried to get you out as soon as I could-“

“He’s at St Mary’s hospital, I assume?”

“Yeah. They admitted him hours ago. I tried to-“

“Just- not now Lestrade.” He breathes a sigh of frustration. “I know it’s not your fault.” 

Lestrade gives a single nod, shoving his hands into his pockets as Sherlock hails for a cab. 

“How is he?” Sherlock asks when they are both seated. Lestrade grimaces. 

“It’s- it’s bad Sherlock. He’s stable, but he’s not woken up yet. Oh, Mycroft said to give you this-“ He reaches into his bag and pulls out a manila envelope. John’s medical file. Sherlock’s brain is too frantic to focus on the words- they blur and swim in front of him. He thrusts the file back to Lestrade with more force than necessary. 

“Have you read it?” 

“Yes.”

“Did he go into cardiac arrest?” 

“No. He’s been intubated though.” 

Sherlock takes a deep breath. This might be worse than he thought. 

“Did you see him?” He asks. 

“No, but Mycroft filled me in this morning. I couldn’t leave the station, I needed to make sure you got released as soon as possible.” 

They spend the rest of the cab ride in silence, Sherlock tapping his fingers nervously against his leg. When the taxi stops outside St Mary’s, Sherlock rushes out- leaving Lestrade to pay. 

“I’m here to see John Watson.” He barks at the man on the front desk. 

“I’m sorry we’re not allowing visitors to Mr. Watson at this time-“ 

“It’s Doctor, and I need to see him, he’s my partner-“ 

“I’m sorry-“ 

Lestrade finally appears through the doors, jogging up to the desk.

“He’s with me.” He flashes his badge, before making his way around the corner to the lifts. The receptionist just nods and lets them pass. 

“What was that about?” Sherlock asks as Lestrade pushes the button for the fourth floor. 

“Well, technically, John is still under arrest. We cleared you from the kidnapping but John did actually commit the crime he was arrested for. It’s a bit harder to lift the charges.” In the rush of the past few days, Sherlock had forgotten that detail. He smiles despite himself. 

When the lift door opens, a police officer greets them. 

“Mr. Holmes. Detective Inspector. I was informed of your arrival.”

“Yes, thank you.” Lestrade says at the exact time Sherlock blurts out: “Where is he.” 

“Room eleven, sir.” Their feet echo in the hallway, and Sherlock’s stomach twists. He’s scared of what he’ll see when they enter the room. 

John is lying on a bed in the centre of the room, covered in tubes and wires; barely a clear patch of skin showing. An ECG beeps consistently in the corner.

“Jesus,” Lestrade curses. Sherlock agrees. In all of their time together, he’s never seen John this bad. It makes his heart sink. He had secretly been hoping, against all the evidence, that John would have magically awoken by the time they arrived. They could laugh about what had happened, and start planning a way to free themselves of Moriarty for good.

“Can I-“ Sherlock swallows, trying to keep his voice steady. “Can we have some time alone?” 

“Of course, Sherlock.” Lestrade gestures to the officer, and they make their way out of the room- closing the door softly behind them. 

Sherlock feels a tear roll down his cheek. One singular tear. He wipes it away and vows not to allow the floodgates to open. He will not cry for John Watson. Not yet. 

“Oh, John. What have we gotten into?” 

John doesn’t reply. 

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know this would happen.” Sherlock walks slowly across the room, dragging a chair next to the bed. 

“You need to wake up, John. I can’t- I can’t do this again. I need you.” He takes a shaky breath and reaches out to take John’s hand in his. It’s cold. 

“Here, let me get you another blanket.” There’s a pile of them in the cupboard next to John’s bed. He takes one out and lays it over him, being sure to tuck the edges in, like John always does at home. 

“I was so alone, John. I owe you so much. Please- one more miracle for me. Please, don’t die.” 

He sits and talks to John for an hour, barely pausing for breath, narrating every thought that comes into his head. Plans of how to best Moriarty; a detailed description of what’s happening in John’s body; everything that passes through his head gets spoken aloud. He stops only when his throat becomes sore and scratched. They sit in silence then, Sherlock holding onto John’s hand as if he can push his own life force into him. 

“Yoohoo.” Mrs Hudson knocks on the hospital room door. 

“Greg let me through. How’s he getting on?” 

“No change.” Sherlock rubs his face with his free hand. He’s starting to grow restless. _Twenty four hours._ Surely there should have been some change by now? 

“I’m sure he’ll be okay, Sherlock. He’s always been a fighter, that one.” 

“How can you possibly know that?” Mrs Hudson just gives him a soft look, one he’s sure is meant to reassure but in reality just infuriates him further. Everyone keeps trying to placate him- they all have so much hope that everything will be better, everything will work out just fine. But in Sherlock’s experience, that rarely happens. 

“Here, I brought you some things.” She hands over a bag of clothes, mostly Sherlock’s, with his laptop shoved in on top. “There are some toiletries at the bottom, I don’t suppose you’ve managed to shower in a few days.” 

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson.” That woman is a saint. 

“Go on. Get cleaned up. I’ll stay with him.” Sherlock is torn between getting cleaned up and staying with John; wanting to be there the minute he wakes up. _If he wakes up_. He pushes the thought away. 

“I’ll come and get you the second something changes.” Sherlock sighs, standing and making his way to the door. He is starting to feel rather uncomfortable in his clothes- he hasn’t changed since the morning of the Bruhl kidnappings. That was 48 hours ago. He’d been on the run, in a prison cell, and now in a dingy hospital room since then. Even he could smell that he was becoming a little ripe. 

“Thank you.” Sherlock walks out of the door, glancing one last time at John lying in the bed.

The showers turn out to be down a floor, and whilst they’re not the usual pressure and temperature he has become accustomed to, it’s a welcome relief from the layer of grease that had settled on his skin. He leans on the glass wall, letting the spray fall down his back. The water is slightly too hot- it burns his skin as it slithers down his shoulder blades. 

He should have seen this. He should have worked to think of a plan sooner- get the upper hand rather than play along with Moriarty’s games until the last minute. But he didn’t. And now they’re here. 

After what feels like an hour, but in reality was only half the time, he steps out of the shower. His hands reach to the left on instinct- to where the towel rack normally is in 221B. He panics for a second, thinking he’s forgotten a towel- but Mrs Hudson has left one in the bottom of the bag for him. He should really let that woman know how much he appreciates her. 

Back upstairs, he pauses outside of John’s room, trying to ignore the uniformed officer sitting outside. He needs to compose himself before he sees the people inside- they cannot see how much he’s hurting. A voice slips through the gap in the door, and Sherlock shuffles closer, trying to hear without disturbing his landlady. 

“You have to get better now, John. Sherlock couldn’t bear it if you didn’t. He loves you so much and I think he’d break if anything happened to you. And I-“ He hears her choke back a sob. “You’re like a son to me John Watson. The pair of you. Please, you have to get better.” 

Sherlock enters the room as quietly as he can. Mrs Hudson turns to look as he walks through the door, her eyes red with tears. 

“Oh, Sherlock. Sorry, I’m just being silly.” She dabs at her eyes with a tissue. 

“Nonsense, Mrs Hudson.” He sits in the chair beside her, placing an arm around her waist. She leans and rests her head on his shoulder, trying to disguise a sniffle. 

“You know he sees you like family too. We both do.” 

“Thank you, Sherlock.” They stay in silence for a few moments, both watching the steady rise and fall of John’s chest. If it weren’t for all the tubes and wires, he’d look quite peaceful, lying there. 

“Speaking of family,” Mrs Hudson breaks the spell, “Has Harry been yet?” 

“She was here this morning, or so I’m told.” 

Sherlock can feel her brow crinkle in confusion.

“I was still under arrest this morning. They released me just after lunch.” 

“Is that all sorted then? Have they cleared you both?” 

“More or less. They still want to question us about Moriarty, and technically John’s still under arrest for punching the chief superintendent, but I’m sure Mycroft will have that cleared up soon.” 

“I’m sure he will. It was completely understandable, given the circumstances.” 

Sherlock laughs at that. 

“I’m not sure punching someone because they said your boyfriend looked like a weirdo is classified as understandable, but it’s not the worst thing he’s ever done for me.” 

“I stand by what I said.” They giggle. Mrs Hudson feels warm against his shoulder, and he’s not ready for her to leave quite yet. He’d forgotten, before John, how much he enjoys the physical affection of others. 

Looking at Mrs Hudson now, he is overwhelmed by the love he has for her. She has been like a mother to them both- making sure they were always okay, consoling them whenever they got into arguments with each other. Looking back, he’s not quite sure how he thought he was alone for so long. Molly, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, John. They are his friends; his family. People who love him for everything he is, rather than hating him for everything he is not. 

“I never asked, does he have parents left? Is there anyone else in his family to see him?” Mrs Hudson asks. 

“No. Not anymore. Just us.” 

Mrs Hudson reaches up to place a hand on his. John had told him once, not that he needed to, that Harry was the only family he had left. He’d never known his Dad- gone before he turned two- but his Mother had passed away whilst John was still at university. Sherlock had deduced as much that first day in the lab- most people go to their parents first when in need of help- but never knew whether to bring up the subject. With two perfectly healthy parents himself, he was unsure if John would want to discuss the topic with him. 

Sherlock is hit again by a stab of premature grief. John hadn’t yet met Sherlock’s parents. When, _definitely when,_ John woke up, he’d take him to see them. They’d adore him. Not all of his family were like Mycroft. 

“He’s going to be okay.” Mrs Hudson whispers, and Sherlock feels the lump in his throat return. 

“I hope so.”

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd give you my sunshine, give you my best, but the rain is always gonna come, if you're standing with me.  
> Would it be enough, if I could never give you peace?
> 
> \- Taylor Swift, Peace


	2. Another Brick In The Wall

**_1980 - 2001_ **

Sherlock’s earliest memory is of the bees. Uncle Rudy kept them in his garden, and one of the first things Sherlock remembers is sitting in the grass on his mother's lap, watching the bees dance in and out of the flowers. He’s always liked the bees. 

There’s a time when he is three when he tries to keep one. He wants to take her home; the little bee on the orange flower. Sherlock reaches out and grabs her, squeezing with his little fingers to keep her safe inside his fist. She stings him, right on the palm, and he lets go immediately, bawling with the pain. His mother runs to him, and the sting is forgotten ten minutes later with antihistamines and the promises of ice cream. He becomes more cautious, warier, but still- he likes the bees. 

He doesn’t have many friends, growing up. It doesn’t bother him- not at first. Mycroft is always around to play with him. They pretend to be pirates; dressed in paper hats and tinfoil swords, using the treehouse as their ship. Redbeard, the family Irish setter, is often the monstrous sea creature they have to fight. Usually, those times end with them chasing the dog around the garden, his tail wagging. For his sixth birthday, he is given a real pirates hat- his name and a skull and crossbones embroidered on the front. He adores it- only ever taking it off to sleep, and even then only doing so reluctantly. 

Then Mycroft has to go away to school, and they can’t play pirates anymore. Sherlock waits all term for his brother to come home at Christmas. He waits at the doorstep on Mycroft’s last day of school; tinfoil swords and hats at the ready. But Mycroft doesn’t want to play pirates anymore. 

His parents homeschool him. Mycroft gets to go to boarding school with all the other boys- making friends and joining in their lessons, and Sherlock is jealous of him. He begs and begs his parents to let him go; he longs to be allowed to meet the other children. Eventually, they give in, enrolling him just in time for his GCSE’s. He hates it. Every moment. The other boys call him names; push him down the stairs and stealing his belongings during the breaks. He stays quiet, never letting his family know because he’d asked for this. He had wanted to be there. Even as a child, Sherlock Holmes is stubborn. 

In hindsight, he understands that his parents had seen it coming. They taught him at home because they knew that the other children would be cruel to him- because he is different. He is clever, far cleverer than most his age, and he seems to have a reduced ability to understand those around him- social cues evade him and subtle body language perplexes him. Sherlock knows this, but he doesn’t realise how naive he could be; how willing he is to follow the other children- if only to be their friend. He doesn’t always understand when they are mean to him and it often takes him a while to notice that he is being taunted, rather than admired. Human nature is one of the only things that doesn’t come naturally to him. 

University is better. By then he has learnt to keep his head down, and how to identify the people who will tolerate him. He is still shunned by his peers, labelled as the freak; the machine; the queer. It doesn’t bother him as much as before. By now, the walls around him are high enough to deflect most of it. 

Sherlock has known he is gay since he was fourteen. It has never been a particular issue for him, just an extra fact that he knows, but it is always a problem for those around him. At secondary school he’d kiss boys outside the dorms under the cover of darkness, even sleeping with a few, but by morning those same boys would hurl insults at him. He stops looking for relationships in the people around him, preferring instead to stick with casual hookups and one night stands, discarding people before they can get too close. Better that, than be rejected. 

There is one that is different. Oliver. Sherlock lets his guard down, just for a second, but before he knows it Oliver is inside his head, refusing to let go. It starts as something casual- they meet at a party and end up in Oliver’s bed, tangled in sheets and smoke. Sherlock is about to make his excuses; gather his clothes and leave- but he sees the violin. 

“You play.” It’s a statement, not a question. Of course he does, Sherlock is looking at the instrument and he’s already felt the calluses on Oliver’s fingers. 

“Yeah, my mum makes them. I’ve played as long as I can remember. You?” Oliver asks, gesturing to the violin. 

“Obviously.” Oliver smiles at that. Unusual. Most people are put off by his bluntness. 

“What violin do you have?”

“A Con Fuoco.” 

Oliver nods in appreciation. 

“Play me something.” The demand is soft, and Sherlock wavers. Normally, he would have gone by now. He’d have said no, and walked out, never to see the man again. But this time, he stays. He can’t put his finger on it, the feeling, but he can’t make his legs move in the direction of the door. Instead, he picks up the violin, places it under his chin, and plays.

They are never apart, after that. With each day Sherlock falls a little harder, as he learns a little more. Oliver studies biology. It isn’t chemistry, but it's close enough. He is in the year above, just about to complete his dissertation. His mother makes violins, and his father is a teacher. English. 

On Sherlock’s twentieth birthday, Oliver shows up at the door with a grin on his face. 

“Happy Birthday, genius.” He shoves a box in Sherlock's arms. “Open it.” Inside, delicately placed, is a violin. A new violin. For the first time in his life, Sherlock is speechless. 

“What do you think?”

“Oliver, this is-“ Beautiful. Gorgeous. A work of art. I think I’m in love with you. All these things pass through Sherlock’s head, and he isn’t sure which one to say. All of them, at once. 

“I know. My mum made it. She said she’s never heard anyone else play like you before.” 

“Thank you, this is perfect.” Oliver grins and in that moment Sherlock isn’t sure which is more beautiful; Oliver or the violin. It is that moment, on the doorstep of his house, holding a violin made just for him and stood in front of the most beautiful man he has ever met, that he is sure his life is complete. 

When he plays that evening, naked in the moonlight, Oliver sat on the bed watching, it is like nothing Sherlock has ever felt before. If he had known, all those years ago, that this was what lay ahead of him, he would have taken all those beatings without complaint. Each bully, every taunt that was hurled at him- he could have handled it, if he knew that this man was in his future. 

They exchange confirmations of love that night, bathed in moonlight and music. The words are whispered into ears, delicate and soft. 

Sherlock spends the following six months high on serotonin. He studies, receives top marks in all his assignments, and spends as much time as he can with Oliver. They travel to the Peak District, hike together along the hills, camp in the wilderness and curl up together for warmth. He begins to understand, for the first time, all the stupid things people do in the name of love. He would do anything, absolutely anything, to keep Oliver. 

Oliver graduates, full honours, but he stays with Sherlock in the house they rent. One yellow dressed afternoon they lie curled on the sofa together, discussing their plans for the future. 

“You’d make a good detective, you know,” Oliver says. Sherlock raises a disbelieving eyebrow.

“You would! You see all these things, Sherlock. You can read people. I bet you’d figure out who did it faster than any of Scotland Yard.”

“Very true, they are unbelievably stupid.”

“Consulting detective. You could be the first in the world.” Sherlock smiles. The idea doesn’t seem half bad. 

“You’d need a website, of course. You could catalogue all the different types of tobacco ash.” Oliver grins.

“Now you’re just making fun of me.” 

“Well deduced, Detective Holmes.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “I’m serious though, you’d be good at it.”

“It’s tempting. I knew there was a reason I kept you around.” 

Oliver laughs. 

“Other than my charming personality and painfully good looks?” 

“They are extremely painful,” Sherlock smirks.

  
  


Oliver starts to spend more time with his parents, more time working alone. Which is fine. Sherlock misses him, but Oliver has a life outside of him. It just makes the moments they see each other even sweeter. He appreciates the time together even more. They make plans to see the world- to travel in the summer after Sherlock graduates. Europe, South America, the Middle East. They want to see it all. Sherlock becomes softer, less defensive. He starts to make new friends- students on his course, people in his lab groups. When he lets himself relax, people seem to enjoy his company. True, not everyone gets him, but he meets a few people who seem to genuinely like his company. The walls he had started to build in his childhood start to come down; brick by brick. 

Everything seems perfect. Until it's not. 

It is a soft day in spring, sat outside the library- watching the university team play football on the mud ridden pitch. Sherlock doesn’t understand the appeal, but Oliver seems to like it, so he tolerates watching it. Today, however, Oliver’s mind seems elsewhere. 

“Sherlock, I have to tell you something.” His voice comes out in a half-whisper, his eyes refusing to meet Sherlock’s. 

“Yes?” 

“Oliver?” He says again when there is no reply. Oliver turns, and their eyes lock. Sherlock reads it in his face before Oliver opens his mouth. 

“No.” 

“I’m sorry-“ 

“No-“ It can’t be true. He refuses to believe it. The one person he cares about, the only person who makes him happy, is sitting beside him. And he is dying. 

Sherlock’s shoulders slump and his face falls.

“How- How long? How long have you known?” It’s all he can do to catch his breath, it feels as if all of the oxygen has been taken out of the air. He’s glad he’s sat down, or he is sure his knees would have buckled beneath him. 

“Since I was sixteen. I was fine- I was doing well, but it’s gotten worse.” Why hadn’t he seen it? All the weight Oliver had lost, the days spent ‘at home’. Why hadn’t he noticed? Because he didn’t want to. That was the answer. He has been so wrapped up in his joy, so blinded by the idea that there could be happiness for someone like him- that he’d ignored all the signs. And Oliver had let him. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He can barely speak, barely push the words past his lips. The air is so thin; why was the air so thin?

“I didn’t want you to worry. There was nothing you could do. And honestly? Part of me hoped you knew. That you’d worked it out. You, with that amazing brain of yours.” Oliver smiles, placing his hands on either side of Sherlock’s face.

“Hey, hey- it’s going to be fine. Take a breath. Please, breathe for me.” 

Sherlock closes his eyes, leaning into the touch. It grounds him, and he manages to pull in a lungful of air. 

“It’s not. It’s not going to be fine.” Sherlock says, and when he opens his eyes, they are blurred by tears. 

“Not for me, but you’ll be okay, in the end. You’ve got the rest of your life ahead of you. They’ll be others, I promise.” 

“There won’t. Not like you.” Sherlock closes his eyes again, not wanting Oliver to see the tears that have started to spill. He isn’t the one dying. 

“You might be surprised.” Oliver smiles. 

That night, they make love,soft and slow, each moment savoured as if it could be the last time. They climax together, and spend the rest of the night curled in each other's arms, scared to let go lest one is gone when the other wakes. 

They have a month together. Another month, then he is gone. 

The funeral is on a Monday in March. It is warm, one of the warmest days so far, and Sherlock thinks it is hateful. The world has no right being so nice when his entire life is crumbling to pieces. 

Mycroft is at the funeral, standing stoic next to Sherlock. They barely utter a word between them the entire service and the car ride home. Later, in the early hours of the morning, Mycroft enters Sherlock’s room and takes his broken brother in his arms. Sobs rack through Sherlock’s body, and he shakes under the weight of them.

“Why?” 

“I don’t know, Sherlock. I don’t know.” Mycroft whispers.

The next time they see each other is at Brookfields hospital, where Sherlock is being treated. Overdose. 

“Oliver wouldn’t want this, Sherlock.”

“Keep his name out of your mouth.” Sherlock slurs. Mycroft frowns at him, thin-lipped and stern. 

It is the first time, but it won’t be the last. He makes lists; leaves them in his pockets for Mycroft to find. Lists of the chemicals in his blood. It is the only thing his brother asks for. 

He still attends uni, but barely. His good grades from before are enough to carry him, as he gets the bare minimum to pass for the rest of the year. He wouldn’t be surprised if Mycroft has bribed some of the lecturers to let him stay enrolled. He doesn’t care. He loses most of the friends he made. He becomes unresponsive in labs, doing the bare minimum to pass and leaving as soon as it's over. No one wants to be around him. He becomes rude, pointing out unwelcome deductions just to keep people from talking to him.  _ Are you alright? How are you holding up? _ The words are hateful. Of course he isn’t alright. He will never be alright. 

It gets better, with time. It's not as if he forgets- how could he? But he learns how to push it down, to package it away in the dark corners of his mind. He still isolates himself, building his walls even higher, trying to keep everyone out. It's the only way to keep himself safe. 

But that is before John Watson. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All in all it was all just bricks in the wall
> 
> \- Pink Floyd, The Wall


	3. Beautiful Stranger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Brief mention of rape/sexual assault. Not in relation to the main characters.

**_2001 - 2010_ **

Sherlock graduates by the skin of his teeth. He was high in his exam, like most of the time now, but he’s clever enough to scrape through. He deletes the list of job vacancies he was going to apply for, instead choosing to wander the streets searching for his next hit. 

There are times he spends sober. A few stretches of weeks here and there where he keeps himself occupied enough to stay clean. But they don’t last very long. Inevitably he finds himself at the bottom of a seven percent solution, trying to remember what he’s running from. Or towards. He isn’t sure anymore.

The first time he meets Inspector Lestrade is, unsurprisingly, at a crime scene. A woman has been found in Regent’s canal, floating face down at Hawley Lock. Sherlock happens to be walking down the High Street when he overhears Lestrade theorising as he de-gloves and walks back under the tape. 

“A suicide probably, or an accident. I’m not sure we’ll find much evidence at the site, the water will have destroyed most of it.” 

“Wrong,” Sherlock mutters. He thought he was quiet, but it was just loud enough for the inspector to hear. 

“Excuse me?” Sherlock stops, hands in his pockets, weighing up the likelihood of being verbally abused, or even arrested. In the end, he can’t help himself. He’s not explained his deductions in so long. 

“Did you look at the body? The clothes are expensive, and her makeup has been colour coordinated with her dress and shoes. She’s probably been on a night out, especially given her proximity to Camden High Street. Considering the flow rate of the canal, the footfall on the walkway and the body’s lack of decay, she probably died here or nearby, then the body was dumped here last night. The canal isn’t deep enough to commit suicide unless you weigh yourself down, yet there is nothing on the body and it's not decayed enough to suggest that it floated up. If she’d jumped from a building there would be more damage to the body, and, given her attire, it seems unlikely that she planned to do that. More likely, she was murdered. 

Women her age don’t tend to walk this way at night alone which rules out an opportunistic killing- she probably met someone and walked back here with them. Given that she was killed on a Monday night she was most likely on a date, so a date-rape gone wrong is looking a likely cause. You’d have to do a toxicology screen and post mortem to be sure.” Sherlock’s doesn’t stop for breath; it feels good to let his brain run free like that. 

“That’s- well, that’s quite something.” Lestrade blows out his cheeks, glancing sideways at the officer beside him. “How did you even see the body anyway? The crime scene is taped off.”

“I live along the canal. I could see it from my window” Sherlock lies. In reality, he’d found the body in the early hours of the morning and called it in anonymously. He didn’t think that the police would take him seriously when they found the cocaine in his pocket. 

“Well, thank you, Mr-“

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes.” The officer beside him seems to scoff but stops when the DI shoots her a glare. 

The next time Sherlock sees Lestrade, he is high as a kite. He gets caught up in the middle of a raid in one of his more favoured dealing spots. Lestrade isn’t the one who arrests him, but they pass each other on the way out to the police car.

“Oh, Jesus. Of course. Of course, you’re a bloody junkie.” 

“Sorry to disappoint,” Sherlock smirks, as he’s pushed into the car, narrowly missing his head on the roof. 

He doesn’t have to wait long at the hospital before Mycroft inevitably meddles. Lestrade walks into Sherlock’s room, dismissing the uniformed officer keeping watch. 

“Sherlock, right?” Sherlock grunts noncommittally from his bed. God, he forgot how bad this bit was. The withdrawal. All he can think about is how soon he can leave and whether Billy will still have a supply. 

“You’ve been cleared of all charges. It seems someone out there wants to keep your nose clean, metaphorically speaking.” Lestrade wrinkles his own at that, clearly realising the pun too late. 

“Well, there have to be some benefits to my brother. I’m surprised he hasn’t been here yet, you’re his type.” Lestrade blushes, as Sherlock had hoped. He hates being pitied. “Can I go now,  _ detective _ ? “

“Yeah, you’re free to go.” Sherlock drags the covers off and sticks his feet straight into his shoes. He hadn’t let them undress him fully, not wanting to stay any longer than it took for Mycroft to hear about his situation and pull some strings. 

“But Sherlock, I have a proposition for you.” 

“I’m not interested.” 

“I want you to consult on crime scenes.” Sherlock stops, halfway out the door. 

“I’m sorry?” 

“You heard me. I want you to consult on crime scenes. You gave us a vital lead on that one in the canal, let us give the family real closure. I’ve seen your website, I want to see what else you can do.” Sherlock's brain stalls. Consulting detective; first in the world. Hadn’t he wanted that, once? Before his life came crashing down? He’d be able to let his brain run free, make use of the piles of stored information in his mind palace.

“None of the serious cases, not to start. You need to prove yourself first.” 

Sherlock is tired. He didn’t realise how much- how exhausted he was- until he was offered an out. He could do something with this miserable existence- something fun. He would still be alone, he would still be safe, but maybe he would start to feel something other than this endless hollowness. And it was what Oliver had wanted. 

“And you’d have to stay clean.” Of course, he figured as much. That would be hard, but he could do it. If he had enough distractions. 

“Yes,” Sherlock answers, his mouth betraying him before he’s had a chance to compose himself. He hadn’t meant to sound so eager. 

“Yes?” 

“Yes, I’ll do it.” 

Lestrade smiles. 

“Welcome to the team, Sherlock Holmes.”

  
  


The first case is hard. Not intellectually; it’s quite clear from the minute he steps on the scene that it was the next-door neighbour who broke into the house, but physically. His skin itches, desperate for another high. He’s been good- since the withdrawal symptoms faded, he hasn’t touched the stuff once. It helps that he’s paid off all his local dealers so they won't come near him, even if he wanted them to. Which he does. 

There is sweat on his brow as he walks around the house, taking note of each window and furniture positioning. Lestrade watches him, observing his methods and glancing at Sherlock's shaking hands. The results of his drug test will be in this afternoon- he has to take one each time he’s allowed on a scene. 

At first, Sherlock is sceptical, wishing he could be home; so far into his head that he’s forgotten his name. But after a few minutes, he realises that this is far better than anything the drugs could give him. He sees  _ everything _ . He can see every single person who’s been in the house through the carpet treads, and he notices all the gaps on the counters where things have been taken. He doesn’t need to try and  _ see _ the information, he just needs to pick out which of it is relevant. Most of the time, he suppresses all of it- not needing to know the innermost details of each location he visits or person he meets. But here, he can let his brain roam free. 

“Any theories, Sherlock?” Lestrade asks from the doorway. He’s still not ventured inside, preferring instead to keep a close eye on Sherlock. 

“A few,” Sherlock replies, not wanting to seem too eager. He’s not sure if Lestrade would like that. Most people find his interest in crime rather disturbing. 

“Come on, Sherlock. I know you’ve already worked it out. Even I know what happened, so I’m sure you do.” 

Sherlock smirks and launches into a breathless explanation of how the neighbour broke into the house to steal a priceless vase, but made the mistake of wearing distinctive shoes. 

They arrest the neighbour that afternoon, and Sherlock lies awake at night with a new resolve. He will never do  _ anything _ to compromise this. He’s been given another chance. Lestrade took a risk, and now Sherlock has something he values more than getting high. 

It takes a while for Lestrade to let him onto the more serious cases; those involving homicide or assault. The ones that stump the rest of Scotland Yard. But once he does, there’s no going back. Initially, Lestrade had thought he was throwing Sherlock a bone- giving him some purpose to keep him alive- but now Lestrade sees that he needs Sherlock as much as Sherlock needs the distraction. 

When Mycroft finally sticks his nose in (When he deems Sherlock’s new career as worth his while), he offers Sherlock a few cases of his own. A few in Central Europe, a particularly exciting one in America. He solves a few cases there, one of which ensures the execution of a British drug cartel boss. He makes particular friends with the wife, Mrs Hudson, who accompanies him back to London. 

A few years pass, and Sherlock never once relapses. There are times, of course, where he was close. The anniversary has always been particularly difficult, but he thinks of the cases and knows there is no chance he would ever throw them away. 

He visits Mrs Hudson regularly, finding comfort in her motherly presence. He keeps his guard up, but she gets the closest to pulling it down. 

“Where are you living, Sherlock?” She asks one day when they are sat drinking tea in Covent Garden. 

“I have a flat in Stratford. It’s small, but it's enough.” 

“Oh dear, that’s so far away! You must spend a fortune on cab fares.” She pauses, thinking something over. “I have an empty flat on Baker Street, if you want it.” 

Central London. That would be more convenient for the work. And whilst he doesn’t care about the cab fares, he’s sure Mycroft would appreciate it if his commute became shorter. 

“That would be lovely, Mrs Hudson.”

“It’s big enough for two.” Her eyes sparkle with suggestion. He almost chokes on his tea. 

“Oh no, it's just me, Mrs H.” 

“Sherlock, it does you no good to be alone.”

“Alone protects me.” 

“Balderdash!” She laughs, startling the customers on the next table over. “That’s a load of crap Sherlock, and you know it. Friends protect people.” 

Sherlock grimaces but does not correct her. People never seem to understand. 

“Well, think about it, Sherlock. I could do with some young men in my flat. Liven the place up a bit.” Sherlock isn’t sure she knows what she’s getting into. 

He ignores her suggestion, mostly, but makes plans to move his things into the flat on Baker Street. He chooses the bedroom downstairs; having no intention of finding a flatmate. That is, until a beautiful stranger walks into St Bart’s lab. 

“A bit different from my day.” Sherlock eyes the man entering the lab, briefly annoyed at the interruption. This is the third time today. First Mike looking for specimens, then Molly trying to conspicuously flirt with him, and now this man- stating the obvious. 

“Mike, can I borrow your phone?” 

“No sorry, it’s in my coat.” Mike and the stranger keep exchanging glances like they’re conspiring in something. Of course. When Mike had interrupted him earlier Sherlock had mentioned Mrs Hudson wanting him to find a flatmate. Now here he is, barely after lunch, with a stranger in tow. Mike must think he’s found a candidate. 

Trying to dissuade them, he barely glances at the stranger, instead trying to focus on the paint beneath the microscope. Definitely green. The brother then. 

“Here, use mine.” That breaks his concentration. People don’t normally offer. There’s something different about this man- but Sherlock can’t quite place it. It bothers him. He can see quite clearly that he is an army doctor, obviously invalided home. The limp is psychosomatic. Interesting. He files the information away for later. 

“John Watson. An old friend of mine.” 

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock asks. John doesn’t hide his surprise. They never do. 

“Afghanistan.” He thought as much. 

“How do you feel about the violin?” They share the conspiratorial glance again.

“Sorry, what?”

“I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.” He doesn’t mention that his neighbours have regularly complained that his violin playing occurs at 4 am, or that he conducts experiments in his flat with human body parts. He needs to seem as if he’s at least trying. 

But Dr Watson seems undeterred. Sherlock can’t help but be a little fascinated by him. He’s keeping a lot of emotion close to his chest, it's hard to read, but Sherlock is certain that there is more to this man than he can currently see. So much information is running through his head that it’s hard to work out which parts are important. 

So, against his better judgement, Sherlock gives Dr Watson the address.

On his way to Baker Street the next day, Sherlock can’t decide if he wants John Watson to be there. He doesn’t want a flat-mate; he could afford the flat by himself. But John- John is a mystery Sherlock desperately wants to solve. There is something, just below the surface, that he’s not seeing and, not for the first time, curiosity opens his defences just a little. Enough for John to slip inside. 

John seems very interested in the flat, even though it must be slightly outside of his budget, even halving the rent. Lestrade interrupts their negotiations about the bedrooms, delivering the news of a fourth suicide. Perfect. He’s been trying to get on this one for weeks. Sherlock doesn’t hesitate to follow him, leaving John Watson to look around the flat himself. There’s no protecting him- this is going to be a regular occurrence. Might as well rip the plaster off now. 

“Damn my leg!” John’s voice echoes down the stairs. Sherlock stops. The psychosomatic limp. A theory forms in his brain, but he pushes it away, tentatively. The chances of a limp like that being fixed with adrenaline are incredibly small, but not unheard of. Perhaps that is what keeps catching Sherlock's attention. 

He could keep walking. He could leave Baker Street and John behind, and stay safe in the comfort of isolation. But something makes him stop, turn around, and walk back up the stairs. 

“You’re a Doctor. In fact, you’re an army doctor. Any good?”

“Yes. Very good.”

“Seen a lot of injuries then. Violent deaths.” Sherlock’s still not sure if this is a good idea. Bringing a man with PTSD into a crime scene. It could backfire badly, but Sherlock has to see. He needs to know if he’s right about John.

“Well, yes.”

“A bit of trouble too, I bet?”

“Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much.”

“Want to see some more?”

“Oh God, yes.” 

In the cab ride over, Sherlock explains all his initial deductions about John, half expecting the man to run the second they arrive in Brixton. But he doesn’t. He stays.

At the crime scene, Lestrade keeps trying to catch Sherlock’s attention, but he deliberately avoids his gaze. Eventually, the Inspector gives up, instead texting Sherlock whilst John leans over to look at the body. 

**Who’s this???**

**New flatmate. Probably.** **S** ****

**Probably? How can you not know??**

**It rather depends on whether this scares him off.** **S**

**He really shouldn’t be here, you know. I’m bending the rules just letting you in.**

**Please, Lestrade.** **S**

Lestrade doesn’t reply, preferring instead to raise an eyebrow at Sherlock. 

**You gave me a chance, I think he needs the same.** **S**

**Okay. But he’s your responsibility.**

**Thank you.** **S**

John settles in well to life at 221B. After the ‘Study in Pink,’ as John coins it in his blog, there’s rarely a case where they aren’t together. Sherlock tried, he really did, to maintain his distance. He knows absolutely no good will come of letting John Watson inside his carefully built walls. But somehow Sherlock just can’t seem to stay away. He hasn’t had someone this close since Oliver, and he had forgotten how nice it could be, to know that someone else cares where you are; when you’ll be home. 

_ This is enough.  _ Sherlock thinks. He had forgotten what it was like to be happy. He is still terrified that John will suddenly leave, or discover something about Sherlock that makes him run for the hills. But another day passes, and John stays. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm terrified, but I can't resist,  
> Beautiful stranger, here you are in my arms,  
> And I think it's finally, finally, safe, for me to fall.
> 
> \- Halsey, Finally//Beautiful stranger


	4. Apart Together

**_Present day: 21st November 2011_ **

“Mr. Holmes?” A middle-aged woman is peering through the door, John’s file in her hand. 

“Yes?” 

“I’m Dr. Williams, Dr. Watson’s primary physician.” She makes her way into the room, closing the door behind her. Mrs Hudson has long since left, leaving Sherlock alone with John. 

“I was told you’d be here eventually; I missed you at rounds this morning.” The bite in her voice is unmistakable. She knows he was under police custody this morning; John is still under arrest and gossip travels fast. 

“Yes, I got here as fast as I could.” Sherlock gives her an unnatural smile. John is still her patient; it’s none of her business whether or not he is a criminal. 

“Sure. Well, Dr. Watson is doing okay considering-“

“Considering he was poisoned?” Sherlock interrupts. She’s already getting on his nerves. Wedding ring on her finger; bags under her eyes; it's obvious she’s a newly married woman who wants to get home to her spouse and young children. If she cares about that more than giving John the best care, then he has no time for her. 

“Well, yes. His heart rate is slightly bradycardic, which means-“

“I know what it means.” Sherlock snaps. 

“Mr. Holmes, I am not your enemy. We both want what’s best for Dr. Watson, which is ideally a full and speedy recovery. We’re on the same side here, please don’t forget that.”

There’s a slight pause, both sizing each other up. Eventually, Sherlock’s shoulders drop in defeat. He knows she’s right; he just needs someone to take his frustration out on. 

“Sorry. Continue.” She purses her lips but continues regardless. 

“He’s slightly bradycardic and hypotensive, which is not ideal. We’ve given him IV fluids, sodium bicarbonate and hydroxocobalamin. He’s intubated, but he’s capable of breathing by himself. Once his O2 saturation increases we can take it out. He’s responding to painful stimuli so his neural network is undamaged, it’s just going to take time for the cyanide to leave his system. All we can do now is wait.” Sherlock’s stomach sinks. This is all relatively good news; the cyanide hasn’t caused oxygen deprivation to his central nervous system, so there should be little to no long term damage. It’s just the waiting. Sherlock hates waiting. 

“Is there nothing else we can do for him?” 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes. We’re monitoring his vitals so we’ll administer care to maintain them, but there’s nothing else we can do at this time. We just need to wait for the hydroxocobalamin to do its job.” 

“What time frame are we looking at?” 

“Could be a few hours, it could be a few days. Patients respond differently. He got quite a high dose, so I think it could take some time. It’s lucky that you got to him when you did.” Sherlock rubs the back of his neck, trying to push the knots out. 

“Thank you, Dr. Williams.” 

“I’ll be back in the morning for rounds, call for a nurse if you need anything.” With that she leaves the room, bumping into a solemn Lestrade in the doorway. 

“Hey, mate. I didn’t want to come in whilst you were busy. How’s he doing?” 

“No change. A nurse took his blood a few hours ago, so we’ll see if anything has changed there soon.” Lestrade sits down in the chair next to Sherlock, clearly uncertain what to do with himself. He looks torn between trying to hug Sherlock and placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. In the end, he does neither. 

“It’s not your fault, you know. This could have just as easily been you.”

“I know. Rationally, I know that. It’s just- whenever he’s around me, he’s in danger. If it weren’t for me, he’d be fine.”

“Sherlock, if it weren’t for you he’d probably be dead, or have you forgotten the first time you met?” 

Sherlock’s hand starts twitching. He sits on it to keep it still. He prefers not to think about what would have happened to John Watson if he hadn’t moved into 221B. 

“Perhaps, but he’s still in danger here. What if I hadn’t been there, Lestrade? What if he hadn’t been arrested, and he was alone when this happened? He’d be dead, because of me.” 

“Sherlock, the man invaded Afghanistan. He knows how to handle himself. Besides, there was no way he wasn’t going with you. He loves you far too much to go without a fight.” Sherlock sighs. He supposes that’s true. Given John’s appetite for adrenaline, there was nothing he could have done to keep John Watson away. 

“You know, I’m glad you two finally got yourselves sorted. You’re good for each other, and it was starting to look like I was going to lose the bet.” 

Sherlock smirks. 

“Was it that obvious?” 

Lestrade raises his eyebrow. Of course it was. Everyone had assumed they were a couple for years, long before Sherlock realised that it was a possibility. It had never bothered him. Sometimes it had bothered John, at the start, but he suspects that was more out of principle than any malicious reason. After a while, neither of them corrected people when they assumed, and eventually, it became true anyway. 

“Mrs Hudson nearly fainted with excitement. It was quite a sight.” Sherlock says, making Lestrade chuckle. Out of all of them, she was the one that had made her feelings on the matter quite clear. She’d assumed they were a couple from the beginning, despite John’s protestations. 

“I always liked that woman. Not like that brother of yours.” 

“Give it time. Any news on clearing John?” 

“No, not yet. The Superintendent is being quite insistent. I think he feels put out that we didn’t have enough evidence to properly charge you. And, I think John broke his nose.” Sherlock laughs, and it feels odd against the background of machines surrounding John’s bed. 

“I can’t stay long, but let me know if you need anything, yeah?” 

“Thank you, I will.” 

“Anything, Sherlock. I mean it.” 

Sherlock answers in a half-smile, and he believes it. It took him a long time, but the few friends he does have are loyal to a fault. 

Lestrade heads back towards the door, pausing just before he leaves; hand resting on the frame. He looks over his shoulder, contemplating the men before him. 

“Look after yourself, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock nods, and Lestrade leaves. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can handle the entropy, if you promise to stay with me.  
> I give you my heart knowing things fall apart  
> Praying you will decay with me
> 
> \- Tim Minchin, Apart Together


	5. Everything has changed

**_2011_ **

By the time Sherlock realises what’s happening, it’s far too late. It starts innocently enough; Sherlock finding increasingly flimsy excuses to touch John; going out of his way to make deductions that he knows will impress him. 

But then John is injured on a case, and Sherlock almost falls apart. 

They’re waiting for a suspect; crouched in the dark with their knees touching. Sherlock keeps nudging his legs forward, increasing the contact between them. If asked, he would just say his legs were getting sore. But he knows this isn’t the case. Not really.

Despite the fact neither of them are making a sound, John places his fingers over his lips as they hear the suspect ascend the stairs. As they creak into the room, they both spring from the closet, unprepared for the knife that slashes in front of them. 

John cries out, grabbing his arm where metal met flesh. Sherlock doesn’t notice at first, he blunders forward, grabbing the man’s wrist and increasing the pressure until he drops the knife. They arrest and bind him, sitting him into a chair whilst they wait for Scotland Yard to arrive. 

“That was close, he could have-“ Sherlock’s brain stalls as he turns and sees John, blood seeping through his fingers where they are pushed against the wound.

“John?”

“I’m fine, just a nick. I can stitch it up at home.”

“You’re hurt-“ Sherlock's brain slows, thoughts that normally speed through his head taking full seconds to process. 

“Just a little, I’ll be fine.” 

“You’re-“ His chest tightens, the air suddenly seeming too thin. His knees start to buckle and he grasps for the wall to steady himself. 

“Whoa, Sherlock. Sit down. Are you okay?” John’s brow crinkles with concern as he takes Sherlock's hand and helps ease him to the ground. 

It’s silly really. Sherlock knows John’s fine. The wound is superficial, and it's almost stopped bleeding now. But Sherlock’s brain doesn’t seem to have gotten the message. All he can see is Oliver- those last days lying in his bed, willing the world to fall away.

“Yeah, I’m - just give me a minute.” Sherlock lowers his head to his knees, desperately trying to get his breathing in check. This can’t happen. He can’t get a panic attack whenever John is hurt. It isn’t practical. Besides, it's not the first time. They’ve been in scrapes before. So why now? Why has he suddenly started to react this way? It’s not as if- 

The realisation hits him like a train. No.  _ No _ . Not again. 

He’s fallen in love with John Watson. 

His reaction makes sense now. It’s a common phenomenon; part of the fight or flight response. His brain- the primordial, reptile portion of his brain- can not tell the difference between seeing John hurt, and Oliver. Rationally, he knows it’s different. John is fine, it's just a cut. He is not going to die. The problem is, no-one told his brain that. 

Eventually, he manages to get his breaths under control, and the tightness in his chest subsides. 

“Adrenaline rush. I’m fine, really.” John looks unconvinced. “We should get you home, John.” 

“Scotland Yard should be here soon. Then we can go.” 

Once John is stitched up and safely in his bed, Sherlock mulls the thoughts over. The hidden layer of John Watson- is this what he’d noticed that first day in Barts? The capacity for him to feel this deeply? 

Once he’s realised, he wonders how he hadn’t noticed sooner. 

The adrenaline filled moments after a case- exhaustion and alertness laced with an undercurrent of sexual tension- he recognises them now. He understands quite how addictive they are. He sees patterns in their behaviour, moments when John touches his skin for too long; when Sherlock crowds his space entirely on purpose. They’re like magnets- opposite poles gravitating toward each other across a room. Whether this is purposeful or subconscious on John’s part, Sherlock is not sure- but once he looks hard enough the pattern is obvious. So, why did he miss it? 

He knows, deep down that the answer is because he didn’t want to admit he felt that way. Sherlock Holmes isn’t scared of much, but he is particularly terrified at the prospect of losing John Watson. The loneliness he can handle- God knows he’s handled it most of his life; but having John and then losing him? He’d fall to pieces. 

The same questions run through Sherlock’s mind, over and over. If John knew, would he run? He seems to handle being Sherlock’s friend, to enjoy it even, but would Sherlock loving him be too much? Would it be the step too far that sends John running for the hills? 

The rational and emotional sides of his brain are conflicting. The part he wants to listen to, the part he values above all else, is telling him that of course, John wouldn’t run. John, in all probability, has very similar feelings of his own, and Sherlock shouldn’t feel afraid to act on them. However, the emotional layer creeps in, seeding doubt into the folds of his mind and reminding him that no one really loves him. And anyone who does is condemned to leave him. He is destined to be alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my walls stood tall, painted blue,  
> I'll take them down and open up the door for you.
> 
> \- Taylor Swift, Everything has changed


	6. Feels like this

**_March 2011_ **

Sherlock is still in turmoil by the time they take the case in Dartmoor. A giant hound; roaming the hills. He should be enjoying himself- sharing a room with John, using Mycroft’s security clearance to his own ends- it’s perfect. So why isn’t he happy? 

The doubt still eats away at him, consuming a portion of his every waking thought, and a large proportion of his non-waking thoughts too. He can’t shake it, the duality of being both sure and unsure at the same time. It’s exhausting. Combined with the sight of an impossible hound in the hollow, Sherlock is at his wit's end. He can’t trust his thoughts, can’t trust his sense, what next? Is everything he sees and thinks a lie? 

John is trying to rationalise it, dismiss the idea that Sherlock saw anything at all out on those moors. They’re sat in armchairs by the fire of the inn, and at any other time, Sherlock would be revelling in the extra time spent with John; the small domestic moments between just the two of them. But now, he’s had enough. He’s too tired to have this argument. 

“I don’t have friends.” Sherlock spits.

“No. I wonder why.” John says softly, before standing up and leaving. 

He hadn’t meant to say that. It was a reflex- the old mantra from life before John. God, if he didn’t do something soon about the war in his head, he was going to start saying things he would regret. The wall he’d built himself was not as high these days, but on occasions like this, he can't help but add a couple more bricks. 

When the phone rings, he answers it without checking the ID, hoping it’s John.

“Hello, brother mine.” 

Sherlock audibly sighs. 

“Mycroft.”

“Who were you expecting?”

“It doesn’t matter, what do you want.”

“Now now, Sherlock. I’m calling to follow up from earlier. You broke into a military base with my key card, or have you forgotten already?”

“In all honesty Mycroft, it’s been a long day.” 

“Is Dr. Watson keeping you busy?” He can practically hear Mycroft smirking. Sherlock pauses, weighing up whether Mycroft is the best person to talk to about this conundrum of his. The person he really wants to talk to has walked out the door. 

“Why do people... feel.. this much?” 

“People, Sherlock, or you?” Sherlock doesn’t reply, continuing to stare into the dancing flames of the fire. 

“It’s human nature, I suppose. To  _ feel _ . Ghastly thing. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.”

“You know, I used to believe you. But now- I’m not so sure.”

“No, I’m not sure I believe me either. But you know as well as I do the consequences of caring too much.” 

“Yes.”

“Will you tell me what’s wrong?”

“Who says anything’s wrong?”

“Don’t patronise me, Sherlock.” 

“John and I have had a- misunderstanding.”

“Ah.” 

“I may have said I have no friends.”

“Sherlock, we both know that isn’t true. You have many friends, John Watson just isn’t one of them.”

“Excuse me?”

“John Watson has always been more than a friend, don’t try and pretend otherwise.” Sherlock relaxes his shoulders. 

“Is it that obvious?” The raised eyebrow is audible. 

“It won’t be like before, Sherlock,” Mycroft whispers. Sherlock thinks this might be one of the few times Mycroft has ever been delicate about something. 

“How can you possibly know that? How can you know that I won’t lose him again? I can’t- I can’t do that again Mycroft. It will destroy me.”

“I know. You can’t know for certain, especially with the amount of danger you two insist on throwing yourselves in. But have you considered, Sherlock, that you’re already too far gone for that? Wouldn’t you prefer to jump in, knowing you could lose each-other, than to never have had it?” 

“Since when did you become so philosophical?”

“I have my moments,” Mycroft smiles. “Just, don’t be alone, Sherlock. Don’t be like me.” 

When he hangs up, Sherlock feels more sure then he has in a long time. He had not expected Mycroft to be the one to wield the answers, yet here he is. Surprising as ever. 

He finds John outside, sat in the beer garden, watching the stars. He sits silently next to him, wishing he’d thought to bring his coat. 

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock says, not quite looking at John. “I didn’t mean that.”

“I know, Sherlock. It just hurts sometimes, that you seem to be determined to isolate yourself all the time.” Sherlock stares at his hands, trying to pluck up the courage to say what he wants. What he means. 

“John, I push people away. In my life people have seen my oddness as a reason for ridicule- a weakness to exploit. I’ve been used, made to feel minuscule and wrong. You’ve seen Donovan. She is not an anomaly. I learnt a long time ago how to close people out completely, to protect myself. But you- you have never made me feel that way. You understand me more than anyone else has, but it’s hard to break a habit formed a lifetime ago.” John finally turns to look at Sherlock, and the expression on his face almost melts him. Screw the rest of his speech, he wants to reach across the space between and kiss him now. 

“You’re more than my friend, John. I realised some time ago that we have moved into an area beyond friendship, I’ve just been too terrified to acknowledge it.” He drops his voice to a murmur. “I am so scared of losing you, John.” The corner of John’s mouth curls into a half-smile.

“You’re an idiot.” It’s endearing. Sherlock doesn’t mind if he’s an idiot, as long as he’s John’s idiot. 

John holds his hand out, palm face-up, and Sherlock carefully takes it in his own. It’s simple, and a far cry from what he actually wants to do, but it feels right. 

They sit there for a while, silently gazing up at the stars, hand in hand. Something clicks into place in Sherlock's mind, and a gentle quiet descends. Everything makes sense again. 

John squeezes his hand and drops it, carefully climbing out of his seat. Sherlock thinks he is heading back to the room, but he turns to stand in front of the detective. 

“One thing, Sherlock. One thing I have ever been sure of, and it's you. I’m not leaving you to be alone again.” He winds his arms around Sherlock’s waist, beneath his coat, and reaches up to kiss him. Sherlock leans forward, and as their mouths find each other the rest of the world melts away. There is no hound, no Dartmoor, no Baker Street or consulting detectives- there is only Sherlock and John, suspended in time. 

The first night they have sex, slow and steady between the walls of 221B, Sherlock feels a pang of grief for all the time they wasted- each time they hesitated. He resents the walls he built around himself, every single brick that kept him from finding John Watson sooner. 

They come together, tangled in sheets and skin, and Sherlock vows that he will never let John go. He feels at ease- a blissful calm that he forgot existed. They lie in easy silence, breathing each other in, the air heavy with the smell of sex and want. He could lie here forever, Sherlock thinks, wrapped up in John. 

Sherlock skates on the edge of sleep, filled with a contentment he hasn’t felt for a long time. All of his recent sexual encounters had been transactional- void of love and tenderness. This, he could get used to.

“Sherlock, can I ask you something?” 

“Of course, John.”

“Was there ever anyone else? Before?”

Sherlock turns on his side to face John, their eyes finding each other in the semi-darkness. 

“Are you asking if I’ve done that before?” Sherlock smirks, placing his nose to John’s shoulder. The bullet wound nestled there is puckered and angry, even after all this time, and he’s desperate to run his fingers along it. Another time. 

“No you idiot, it’s quite obvious you have.” John turns and runs his fingers along the back of Sherlock’s neck. “I mean, emotionally. Relationship wise- was there ever anyone else?” 

“Yes. One.” It’s a relief to say. After holding it tight for so long it feels good to finally admit it out loud. And he knows John won’t be jealous- they’ve been through far too much for that. 

“His name was Oliver. We met at university. He was- he was everything.”

“What happened?” John's voice is soft against Sherlock's collar. 

“He had leukaemia. He died.” 

“I’m so sorry, Sherlock.” It's genuine, Sherlock can tell. John isn’t just reading the script, saying what he thinks he should. John is genuinely sorry that Sherlock lost the first person to make him feel whole. The only person, he had thought. Until now. 

“Thank you.”

“What was he like?”

“He was funny. Oliver could find a joke in anything, if you let him. He never made me feel small for not understanding people. He could play the violin better than I’ve ever heard.” Sherlock smiles to himself, “And I remember, he could never dress himself properly. He’d wear shorts in the winter if you let him.” Sherlock chuckles to himself. It's the first time he’s properly let himself dwell on Oliver whilst sober. The memories still ache, but they don’t feel like he’s punctured a lung anymore. He turns to look at John, gazing up at him, and is overwhelmed by the amount of love he has for the man. 

“I never thought I’d feel like this again.” He closes his eyes and holds John closer. 

“Me neither.” He hears back through the dark. 

In the months that follow, there is hardly a moment where they are apart. To be fair, Sherlock thinks, there weren’t many times before that they weren’t together, but now it’s different. John always kisses him when he delivers his morning tea, always places his feet in Sherlock’s lap when they sit on the sofa. Sherlock begins to crave the moments when they touch. The only time they refrain from each other is at crime scenes, where they both agree it’s best to maintain professional behaviour. Still, there is a change in the energy between them- a gentle easiness that only comes when someone has seen all of you. 

At crime scenes, Lestrade gives the pair questioning glances, before John finally catches him up over a pint. From then on the glances become smirks. 

They tell a few people about the development, the ones who matter, but refrain from making a more public announcement on the blog. They won’t hide it- they’ve been through too much for that- but they decide that a degree of privacy is probably deserved. Or rather, John decides. Sherlock couldn’t care less who knows. They have each other, fully, and that’s all that matters. 

Six months pass- countless cases dotted with nights of domesticity and adrenaline filled bedroom adventures. Everything feels very much the same as before, except now they don’t refrain from each other- shamelessly reaching out to press skin against skin. Six months of perfection- before Moriarty comes swaggering back into their lives. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You look at me like I'm all you want  
> How can I resist, when it feels like this?
> 
> \- Maisie Peters, Feels like this


	7. Say Something

**_Present day: 22nd November 2011_ **

“You told me it wouldn’t be like last time. Yet, here we are.” Sherlock speaks without turning round- he can hear his brother's shoes squeak as he enters the room. 

“John will live, Sherlock. It’s not like last time.” Mycroft says, walking to the opposite side of John’s bed. Sherlock glares at him. He doesn’t need this right now. 

“Why are you here?” 

“Contrary to your beliefs, Sherlock, I actually do care about you. About both of you.” He checks his watch. This will not be a long visit. He’s probably got some wars to start somewhere. 

“John is a good man. I’m glad you found each other.” Mycroft says, a hint of softness in his voice. 

“Alright, that’s enough sentiment. It’s making me nauseous.” Sherlock replies, and Mycroft smirks.

“I have news on John’s charges. He’s been cleared, provided he takes part in some community service when he’s well enough. I’m sure Detective Lestrade can find something suitable for him.” 

“The officer outside?” 

“Has been dismissed.” 

“Thank you.” They regard each other across the room, still uncertain about the united front they’ve formed. It’s unusual to agree on something. 

“Well, I'd best be going. I’m expected elsewhere.” Of course. Mycroft leaves, and the room feels empty again. Whilst Sherlock is glad to be alone, the silence is unsettling. The nurses removed John’s intubation tube that morning, so there’s one less machine making noises, and the air feels too quiet. Too morbid.  _ Fifty hours and twenty-three minutes. _ Sherlock’s brain unhelpfully reminds him. It's been too long. The longer John stays under, the less likely it is that he’ll wake up.

He’s taken to having one-sided conversations with John. He did it all the time, before. He’d start speaking to John from the depths of his mind palace, and be confused when he came out to find John wasn’t there. Doing it now adds a level of normalcy. If he pretends John is just sleeping, it is easier to cope. Easier to pretend that there isn’t a very real chance he could lose him forever. 

“When we met, I almost let you go. I didn’t want a flatmate; it was Mrs Hudson’s idea. I was going to chase you away, but something about you fascinated me. In hindsight, you never would have run- anything I said would probably have made you move in faster. Before you, I was so lost. I was drowning in myself. Self-medicating with the Work and pretending that I hadn’t just replaced one addiction with another. The rate I was going, I only had a few years left. But you- you hobbled in with your crutch and your mysteries, and the burning fire around me subsided enough for me to climb back out of the hole I had made. God, I would give everything up for you. The cases, the danger- all of it. Well, I would try. If you asked. I always knew that this work would probably kill me, but not you. Never you.” 

The first sob that escapes surprises him. His whole body shakes, and his eyes become blurred. He had promised that he wouldn’t cry for John Watson, but he should already know not to make promises he can’t keep. He takes John's hand and puts it to his lips, letting the tears drip off his skin. 

When he finally stops, exhausted, he rises from his chair and sits on the edge of the bed. Carefully, as to not disrupt the tangle of wires and tubes, he lies down next to John and wraps his arms around his chest. Strictly, he knows he should leave him be- but right now he just needs to feel John’s warmth against his skin. If he closes his eyes, he can pretend they’re at Baker Street, wrapped up in their bed.  _ Fifty hours and thirty minutes. _ That’s how long John’s been asleep. Sherlock hasn’t slept for longer than that. 

It doesn’t take long for his eyelids to become heavy, and he knows he should move to the pull out bed that the nurse pointed to on the first day. If someone comes in, he knows they’ll ask him to move, but he’s not quite ready to let go just yet. Five minutes. He’ll have five minutes, and then he’ll leave. Just five- 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry that I couldn't get to you.  
> Anywhere, I would have followed you
> 
> \- Small world, Say Something


	8. Soon

**_19th November 2011_ **

Sherlock is furious when they leave Kitty Riley’s house. Moriarty is playing a dangerous game, and this time there’s a high chance he’ll win. He knows everything about Sherlock’s life- the drugs, Oliver, every secret he has ever kept from the public- Moriarty knows. And very soon, so will the world. 

“Can he do that? Completely change his identity? Make you the criminal?”

“He’s got my whole life story. That’s what you do when you sell a big lie- wrap it up in truth to make it more palatable.” 

“So it's your word against his.”

“He’s been sowing doubt into people's minds for the past 24 hours. There’s only one thing he needs to do to complete his game and that’s-“ The realisation hits. Of course. How could he have not seen it before? Moriarty has him exactly where he wants. The only thing he needs now is for Sherlock to die and then the threat will be eliminated for good. 

“There’s something I need to do.” Molly Hooper. She could help. They could fake it- anything to keep John safe.

“Is there anything I can do?” 

“No, on my own.” 

John sighs. 

“Sherlock, you’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“You’re isolating yourself- pushing me away. We’re a team, remember? This affects me as much as it does you.”

“Yes, I’m sorry.” John’s right. Sherlock can feel himself crawling back behind the walls he’d made, all those years ago. And it's true, this does affect John too.

“Moriarty needs me to die.” 

John’s face tightens in confusion. 

“I’m sorry, what?” 

“Henry Knight. Remember? It isn’t enough to just take me out, he wants to discredit everything I’ve ever said. Then the final step, to ensure I’m completely out of the way, is to kill me. Make it look like a suicide.” John’s fists clench by his side, and Sherlock can see him counting his breaths, trying to stay calm. 

“Okay, well, that’s not going to happen. I won't let that happen.” 

“Of course not, John. I’ll fake it if I have to. I just need to get the code. We can use it to erase Richard Brooke and bring back Moriarty.” 

“Sherlock, please tell me you weren’t planning to fake your own death and not tell me about it.” Sherlock tries to look innocent, but he can’t help a mild look of sheepishness. “You know what? I don’t want to know. Anyway, we won’t let it get to that. We’ll find the code.”

“It will be in Baker Street. That’s why the assassins are there; they’re stopping anyone else from getting too close.” 

“It will be crawling with policemen, won’t it?”

“We’ll find a way.” 

“Hang on, I have an idea.” John pulls his phone from his pocket, quickly dials a number and puts it to his ear. 

“Lestrade- don’t let anyone know it’s me. If you’ve ever believed in Sherlock, you’ll give us a chance to sort this out. Please, we need to get back to Baker Street without being arrested.” There’s a pause. Sherlock can’t quite hear what’s being said, but he hopes Lestrade is still on their side. “Thank you, Greg. Thank you so much.” He hangs up, a smile perched on his lips. 

“Lestrade’s going to clear Baker Street out for us. Mycroft’s already spread a rumour that we’re headed out of London, so they’re going to focus on that. It should give us some time in the flat.” 

“Marvellous, John. You’re incredible.” 

As promised, Baker Street is quiet when they enter. Although there is no obvious police activity outside, they enter through the backdoor. 

Inside, the flat is a mess. Someone else has searched before them. 

“Jesus, we weren’t gone that long.” John comments. 

“They’ll have been looking for the code. Either a buyer or one of Scotland Yard, I can’t be sure. Moriarty’s too clever for that though, he’ll have hidden it well.” They search each corner of the flat- every nook and cranny, to no avail. Sherlock even checks his secret spots- long since emptied of drugs. After a couple of hours, they collapse, exhausted, on the sofa. 

“Well, this is going to be harder than I thought.” Sherlock steeples his fingers beneath his nose, searching his brain for any possible way Moriarty could have hidden the code. He’s distracted only by the sound of John’s stomach rumbling. 

“Sorry, I’m starving. We’ve not eaten since breakfast.” John plucks an apple from the bowl on the coffee table, wiping his mouth with his fingers as the juice dribbles down his chin. 

“Want one?”

“No, thank you. I need to think.” 

“Suit yourself.” 

They sit in silence for a while; broken only by the crunches of John’s apple. Sherlock’s brain is travelling ninety miles a minute, simultaneously searching for the code and creating a contingency plan in case they can’t find it. How can he convince the world that he’s really dead? 

“Hang on, Sherlock. What if the code doesn’t exist? You said yourself, Moriarty didn’t touch anything when he visited. And what would be the point of planting it here? He just needs people to think he did. Wouldn’t it just be easier to bribe the security staff? I mean, he must have done it to the jury, who’s to say he didn’t bribe the people at all those places either?”

“John- you’re a genius.” He stands, knocking the bowl of apples to the floor, and starts pacing by the fireplace, his eyes darting back and forth. “Moriarty wouldn’t need to develop a code- he just needs people to think he did. The trial acts as advertising, and all the attention is placed on us. We become a target, and combined with the Bruhl kidnapping doubt starts to seed about our validity. Moriarty just pushes a few buttons, and the nation starts to believe we’re frauds. We just need to work out how to convince Scotland Yard that we’re not guilty.”

“Angelo’s.” 

“Sorry?”

“We were at Angelo’s the night those kids were kidnapped. He can testify. And there should be CCTV footage from outside. Mrs Hudson can verify we were in the rest of the night, she heard us come in.” John blushes. Mrs Hudson had indeed heard them come in- it was one of the nights were they barely made it back to their bedroom. The noise would have been unignorable. 

Sherlock grins. He kicks himself for forgetting. 

“John, have I ever told you how much I love you?” 

“A few times, yes.” John can’t help but grin back. 

“So, we call Scotland Yard, let them verify our alibi. They can’t arrest me for the kidnapping, so that gives us time to find evidence against Moriarty.” For the first time since it started, Sherlock can see a way out of the web being spun around them. 

“Okay, so I’ll call Lestrade and then we-” John’s voice cuts off mid sentence. Sherlock turns just in time to see him crumple to the floor. 

“John?” He takes a step towards him, but he’s not fast enough. John vomits into the carpet and Sherlock barely has time to roll him onto his side before the convulsions start.

“John!” 

His eyes roll back into his head, spasms contorting his body into unnatural shapes. Sherlock throws his weight into the coffee table to move it before protectively placing a hand onto the back of John’s head, using his free hand to call for an ambulance. He looks around, desperately trying to figure out what happened, when his eyes fall on the apple core lying on the floor, fallen from John’s hand. He picks it up and sniffs it. The distinct scent of almonds hits the back of his nose. Cyanide. 

He should have known Moriarty wouldn’t have waited for him to work it out. The only part of the plan which was unchanging was that Sherlock had to die. The rest was just a game. Window dressing.

Blue flashes light up the flat, sirens blaring outside. 3 minutes. They must have been nearby; one ambulance flanked by three patrol cars. Lestrade is the first out, taking the steps three at a time. 

“Sherlock, what’s going on?” He cries as he bursts through the door. 

“John’s been poisoned. Cyanide.” 

“Christ.” 

The paramedics aren’t far behind, and it doesn’t take long for John to be loaded into the ambulance. Sherlock follows them, trying to get into the back of the vehicle, but a uniformed officer stops him. 

“He’s my partner, I need to go with him-“

“Sherlock Holmes, you are under arrest for the kidnapping of...”

“No, no- I need to go with him- I need-“

“-anything you say can and will be used against you-“

“JOHN! Please, I need to be with him, I need-“

“-it may harm your defence if you don’t mention something you later rely on-“

“Get off me. JOHN!” The ambulance pulls away, leaving Sherlock on the pavement. The handcuffs dig into his skin; they’re far too tight. 

“Please- I have to be there- I have to-“ Lestrade finally makes his way out of Baker Street, deliberately trying to avoid Sherlock’s gaze. 

“Lestrade, please- I have an alibi, there are witnesses- please-“

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. I believe you, I do, but my hands are tied. We need to authenticate your alibi. You resisted arrest.” It takes everything Sherlock has not to fall apart. He needs to get through this, quickly, so he can find John. He needs to find John. 

“If he dies-“ Sherlock can’t finish the sentence. It’s happening again. He lets someone close, only to have them taken away again. 

“I know, Sherlock. I know. I’m sorry.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate to make this all about me,  
> But then who am I supposed to talk to?  
> What am I supposed to do, if there's no you?
> 
> \- Taylor Swift, Soon you'll get better


	9. Seeing You

**_Present day: 23rd November 2011_ **

When Sherlock awakens, it takes him a moment to figure out where he is. With his eyes still shut, he can hear the constant beeping of an ECG machine, and the general restlessness of an ICU ward. He can feel John’s body next to him, warmth radiating from under the covers. Sherlock’s arm is still stretched over John’s chest; half out of protectiveness and half to stop him falling out of the narrow bed. Judging by the light saturation behind his eyes and the positioning of the windows, it must be early morning- seven at the earliest. Rounds will start soon, and Sherlock will have to move if he doesn’t want Dr Williams getting annoyed with him. He audibly whines, desperately wanting to stay in the cocoon of sleep, and that’s when he feels it- the body beside him moves.

“Sorry, numb bum.” 

Sherlock’s eyes open so fast he’s not sure he didn’t damage something. He lifts his head up as gently as he can, immediately turning to search the face next to him. John is awake. He stays silent for a moment, simply scanning John’s face, unconvinced that he’s not dreaming. He tentatively reaches a hand out to John’s face, breathing a sigh of relief as it makes contact with skin. All the tension that had been accumulating in his body releases at once, and he almost collapses back onto the figure in front of him. 

“John.” It’s a welcome and a cry all at the same time. John is here.  _ He is not alone again.  _

He has seen John’s face countless times. He’s studied it in the quiet moments between cases; memorising every pore. At first it was only when John was distracted; sneaking glances over his tea or laptop screen. Later he stared unashamedly; John gently smiling in return. He knows that face- every inch of it. If it were dark, he could identify it from touch alone. But right now, swallowed by relief, he feels like he’s seeing his face for the first time. It is identical- the same arch of his brow and line of his lips, and there is an aching familiarity to it, yet he sees so much more than before. The mutual understanding of the depth to which they need each other. They exist as halves- begrudgingly functional on their own, but forming something exceptional together. 

“Hello, stranger.” John gives a tired smile. 

“How long?” 

“Only an hour. You looked tired, I wanted to let you sleep.” 

“I worried that you wouldn’t wake” Sherlock’s voice cracks mid-sentence. 

“Hey,” John places a hand over Sherlock’s where it still rests on his cheek, running a thumb over the smooth skin. “I would never leave you.” 

Sherlock leans forward, placing a kiss rather urgently on John’s lips. John’s hand slides to the back of Sherlock’s neck as he returns it, both leaning into the other as if they have been starved of oxygen, and finally been allowed to breathe. 

When they break apart, John rests his forehead against Sherlock’s, smiling against his lips. 

“I love you.” Sherlock murmurs, closing his eyes and breathing in the smell of safety. He isn’t alone. Not anymore. 

  
  


**Epilogue** : 

John is discharged after a few days, once it's been established that his coordination and cognitive functions are back to normal. He has an outpatient appointment booked in a week, a list of exercises to complete throughout the day, and strict instructions to take it easy- but finally, he is home. 

“Stop fussing, I’m fine” John chastises as he walks up the stairs to 221B, Sherlock hovering behind. 

“Are you sure? Your muscle tone will have deteriorated-“ 

“I’m fine,” John says through gritted teeth. Sherlock can hear that he’s out of breath from the first set of stairs, but he says nothing, knowing that John will only push himself further if Sherlock insists on giving him help. 

Once in the flat, John immediately crashes on the sofa, wiping the thin layer of sweat on his brow. 

“See? Fine.” He says. Sherlock just raises his eyebrow. 

“Tea?” 

“That would be lovely, thank you.” 

Sherlock makes his way into the kitchen, flicking on the kettle and pausing at the table. In the very centre is a newspaper, laid out so the front headline can be seen in full. 

**‘Moriarty falls: Richard Brooke is creation of master villain.’**

He picks it up, revealing a government headed document underneath. 

_ ‘On the 23rd November, James Moriarty was charged with fraud, jury tampering and grand larceny. He was arrested at his home in Kensington and transported to Pentonville prison, to await trial. On the morning of the 24th November, he was found dead in his cell. No cause has yet to be determined, but the post mortem will be held at the mortuary of St Bartholomew’s hospital in the coming days.’  _

Handwritten, underneath the text, are the initials:  **MH** . 

Sherlock smiles, and the last few bricks of his wall come tumbling down. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I'd seen it all, was sure by now I knew this place  
> I swear I knew each hair, each line upon your face,  
> But I know now, I know nothing  
> And I'm seeing you for the first time
> 
> \- Tim Minchin, Seeing You


End file.
